


junk.

by fleshcircuits



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Casual Sex Mentions, Disabled Character, Drug Addiction, F/M, Family, Illustrated, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Platonic Sex, Rehabilitation, Strilondes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleshcircuits/pseuds/fleshcircuits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>who needs reasons when you've got heroin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	junk.

**Author's Note:**

> quick wee disclaimer: mom and bro aren't called roxy and dirk, they have different names to set them apart from their alpha counter parts. o/

It's a warmth that immediately surges through your veins. A dazzling kick better than the best orgasm multiplied by tenfold. Then you calm and it entraps you under the guise of comfort as you melt back and let all your troubles ebb away. You're floating; lighter than air-- like you're in that relaxing state between sleep and consciousness, only better. Everything seems so much better after a hit.

In reality you're crashed out on a dirty old mattress in some slum with several other people laying around you in various states of pseudo euphoria. Not that you really give a fuck about them-- you're all here for the same reason; to score a cheap hit somewhere were the police won't come knocking.

You come around from your daze, drenched in a thin layer of sweat. You've rolled off on to the equally dirty floor, face just inches away from the needle you had used only moments ago. Well, it was probably more like hours. Like it matters. You sit up, taking a deep breath. You may have made it past the peak now, but there's still a vague buzz which is enough to give you the energy to get back home.

It's only then you notice that your pants are around your thighs. You yank them back up without much thought as you get to your feet. Apparently you fucked someone. Despite your preferences sometimes a girl just ends up on your dick. Whatever, it happens. You tuck yourself in and leave with an inconspicuous paper bag in your fist. You won't be back here for a little while, you reckon, unless your cravings increase again or you start to feel sore or lethargic. It had been happening more recently, but as long as you get your stuff you'll be fine.

Yeah.

Just fine.

 

* * *

_MONTHS IN THE FUTURE, BUT NOT MANY_

The metal of the key scratches against the lock in your haste. You feel sick, like your bones are about to snap and your stomach is cramping something awful. You've went too long without a hit. Fuck sake, you really gotta learn to take better care of yourself.

The door finally gives way and you immediately go for your stash. No, wait, shit, where's your torch at. You don't really go for the spoon over a candle schtick. Too slow, too primitive, too much of a fire hazard. So you have this tiny blowtorch you figure middle class use for torching turkeys or some shit. In any case you can't find it within easy reach. You must have thrown it somewhere after shooting up last time, you drop to your knees and feel under the couch.

Suddenly, there's a clumsy banging on the door.

You muffle a low growl in the sofa cushion, but you get up to answer it anyway. Sometimes you like to make the effort to be a functioning member of society. You grab a sweater you had thrown over the arm of the couch at some point and pull it over your head, concealing the fresh marks on your arm.

You open the door to a familiar face. Well, sort of familiar. You shoot up with her frequently, just because you often happen to be in the same place at the same time. You think her name starts with T.

You're about to ask her what's up and how the hell does she know where you live when suddenly she's off on this huge rant about how it _was one jumped up time_ and she's _not gonna be stuck with this shit_ and you don't really give a fuck because your stomach's churning and god fucking damn it you just want to get a hit in peace. You must have been out of it, because you only snap out of your wistful daze when she shoves something into your chest, hard. You're about yell and ask her what the fuck she thought she was doing when you realize what that _something_ is-- a baby carrier. With a baby in it.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It's yours, dumbass.”

“Wha-- are you fucking high? There ain't no way this is mine.”

“Take a look at it-- this thing is _yours_.”

So you do.

Any further exclamations of denial died on your lips. The kid couldn't be more than a month old, frail, white as a ghost and with sore, red eyes. There's no doubting he had your strain of fucked up genetics.

While you were stunned you must have taken the carrier, because she wastes no time in legging it back down the stairs and leaving you with one god damn heavy burden. You would give chase, but your legs feel weak. In your current state you'd just pass out and wake up with a face of your own puke half way down the stairs.

At a loss, you take the kid inside and set the carrier on the sofa, flop down next to it, then stare at the opposite wall. You struggle to process what has just occurred-- emotionally and mentally. Your mind isn't as sharp as it used to be. Funny, you started all this to get away from your overwhelming thoughts, now you can barely tell your ass from your elbow most days.

What you need is to not think, to not have to deal with this.

You find your torch. On later reflection you're not really sure _where_ or _how_ but like that matters. Sitting cross legged in a corner you're looking for a vein-- not difficult since you're pale and thin as fuck. You find what your looking for and--

From behind you, there's a quiet gurgle, followed by soft little squeak.

You finally comprehend that there's a kid in the room. What the _fuck_ are you doing.

Somehow you find the strength to fling the syringe somewhere over by the television. You turn around, scrubbing at your face with your hands and momentarily forgetting about the clenching in your stomach. The kid is dirty. Like, just generally grimy. His carrier and clothes are too-- like they were just fished out a dumpster or something. Still, he tries you focus on you as you shuffle closer on your knees. He makes another noise, tiny fingers grasping at the air.

“Hey, little man.”

The kid's eyes widen in recognition and his head lolls in your direction. You examine him for a moment longer. You kind of want to get him out of those clothes. You've been wearing the same unwashed jeans for god knows how long and it doesn't really feel all that great, so you can empathize. Maybe you should wash them at some point.

Anyway, baby first.

You figure it's safe to leave him there for a moment while you go through to the bedroom. You don't actually come in here that often-- your stash is in the living room and you usually just pass out on the sofa when you need to. It's mostly just a storing place for assorted shit nowadays.

What you're after isn't hard to miss-- a wide black chest with a thin lair of dust coating the lid. You leave a palm streak through it as you attempt to brush some of it off before opening it up. An old friend smiles back up at you from inside the long-ignored case; your partner and lifelong bro Lil'Cal. He ain't been doing much talking lately because, well, he needs you for that, but you figure you're still tight.

“Yo, man. Just need to borrow some things.”

He stares back with his shining blue eyes and you know doesn't mind, 'cause he's chill like that. You pick out one of the t-shirts you made for him long ago-- it's about the right size for a baby, and the back is held together by velcro for ease. When you head back through the kid is still contently sitting in his grimy carrier.

“Okay, lil'dude, let's get you out of that shit.”

It's more awkward holding a baby than you thought it would be. His head bobs back and you just about crap your pants as you whip your other hand round to support his neck. Carefully laying him down on the sofa, you begin to unbutton the faded onesie. Thankfully, you note he doesn't need a new diaper, however his skin is unwashed and irritated, with some forming rashes that hadn't been attended to.

“Fuck, that skank ever give you a bath?”

The little guy gurgles in response.

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

You carry him over to the sink with as much care as you can, resting him against your shoulder with one hand as you swipe assorted crap off the kitchen counter and lay out a towel you had used to soak up orange soda a few weeks back. You lay him down on the end that doesn't have a faint orangey stain, feeling a vague sense of accomplishment before you realise you have nothing to actually wash him with. After a quick trip to the bathroom you're back with a near empty bottle of off-brand shower gel and a ratty wash cloth, but then you realize that you had just left a baby lying unattended on a kitchen counter. Oops. Ah well, you weren't winning any father of the year awards anyway. Father. Gross. Even just the word creeps you out.

You wash him with as much care as you can. He squirms and shrieks a little when you wash over the redder parts of his skin, but once you're done he certainly seems happier about being clean. Well, he's gurgling away enthusiastically, so you figure he's happy.

“Chatty little fucker, ain'tcha?”

You don't want to put him back in the dirty carrier after all that, so you lay him back on the sofa surrounded by some cushions. You watch him until he dozes off, tiny chest steadily rising and falling. For that brief space of time, you feel content. You're coping with this shit pretty fucking well, you reckon.

Now your attention isn't needed elsewhere the cravings begin to creep up on you; starting as a dull throb in the pit of your stomach and slowly, steadily becoming a sharp pain that has you clutching at your gut. You grip your shaking hand into a fist, glancing over to where you threw the needle earlier. Kid's asleep and ain't going anywhere. You'll come round in time to... do whatever the fuck comes next.

What _are_ you going to do?

Your head aches at the thought and you shut your eyes. Common sense would dictate you should, like, get your shit together and call someone-- not the police due to the obvious, but... someone, at least. Or at least get up and borrow some diapers from the single mom that lives downstairs. However your common sense has long been replaced with junkie logistics so sticking a needle in your arm and laying on the floor out of it for hours seems like the better alternative.

Clammy fingers reach underneath the TV. A needle pricks pale skin. The plunger is drawn back, taking blood, then pushed down. As the drug is pumped through your veins, you feel free again.

You don't know how long you're gone for.

Reality is a harsh wake up call. You hear crying somewhere in the back of your skull, but it feels so distant that you doubt you needed bother with it. As you come round, the crying goes louder, less hard to ignore. You crack your eye open and groan at being prematurely roused.

You sit up, dragging a hand over your face as you blearily look around. A tiny fist punches the air out the corner of your eye and you turn, staring at the baby that had been dumped on you-- well, it couldn't have been less than a few hours, right?

“ _Fuck_ ,” you hiss, pinching at the bridge of your nose as the wailing continues. You're not sure what exactly your voicing your displeasure at-- being dumped with a baby, shooting up right in front of said baby, or just being brought back to reality so suddenly.

You drag yourself over to the sofa, picking up the kid again and leaning him against your chest. At a loss of what to do, you just gently jiggle him and rub his back, which seems to calm him down a little, but occasionally he makes a disgruntled little noise. You figure he must be hungry by now.

You make that trip to the mom down the stairs. You skim over the details as to why you're suddenly in possession of a screaming half-clothed infant, but you must seem pretty damn hopeless because she ushers you inside. With an air of pity she talks you through changing a diaper and gives you a few days worth of baby stuff to take back with you. You give her a twenty and a pack of cigarettes for her trouble.

Back in your own apartment you awkwardly try to figure out the right angle to hold the bottle at as the little guy suckles away, happier now he's clean and being fed. All this baby stuff is draining and you've only been at it for less than a day. You don't think you can cope with this even if it didn't interfere with your habit. For one of the few times in your life you come to the conclusion that you can't do this alone-- you need help, and there's only one person in the world you can go to for that.

The little guy falls asleep soon after he finishes his bottle and you tuck him back up on the sofa. You get up and go to the kitchen to have a stare down with the phone. When you eventually have the guts to pick it up, you're met with a dead line. Fuck. Must have forgotten to pay that again. There's a pay phone right across the street though. The kid's asleep, he'd be all right if you ran out for a couple of minutes, right?

You grab your jacket, patting the pocket to make sure you have some change for the call. You ensure to lock the door behind you because, you know, at least you're not _that_ shitty a parent. It's raining outside, much to your dismay, but you dash across the road to the pay phone, feeding silvers into the slot as you punch in the number.

“The Lalonde residence,” answers a male voice.

Fuck, not what you wanted.

“Uh, good evening,” you say, dropping your accent to answer in your most _respectable_ telephone voice, “I'm looking for _Miss_ Lalonde.” 

“This is her _husband_ speaking. Who's calling?”

“An associate,” you pause, “from the lab."

“I see. Hold on a moment.”

There's a brief scuffle as the phone is passed over, a grumble of conversation. Then you're greeted with the slightly slurred voice you were after in the first place.

“Rosa Lalonde speaking.”

Ro and you had been tight back in high school. You were both smart slackers with similar interests, however at some point you parted down very different roads. Hers involved a douchebag husband with fat sacks of cash whereas yours' consisted of drugs and anal. Although your contact with her is occasional she's still the only person you trust unconditionally.

“Sup, Ro.”

“Derrick?” She hushes her voice, but she sounds pleased to hear from you. “Oh god, honey, how long as it been?”

“Too long,” you respond with a grin, even if she can't see it, “Listen, uh, I hate to be all blunt and stuff, but, I've got a problem.”

“We all know that,” she says, tone suddenly as dry as that vintage gin she has stashed away for special occasions.

You scoff, “Not _that._ Well, uh, I guess it kind of has to do with it. Like, a... karmatical repercussion or some shit.”

“What? What's happened?”

“Long story short? Got hit, banged a chick. Then she shows up screaming down the whole damn block with this kid and fucks off before I can do anything about it.”

She gasps-- you can practically see her hand fly up to cover her neatly done up mouth. “You have a _kid_?! But-- you're--!”

“Gay as the fourth of July?” You snort, “Yeah, that ain't changed. But... stuff happens.”

“Like drugs?”

“Yeah, like that.”

There's a thoughtful lull on her end. You sigh. “Look Ro, I know I've not... nah, fuck it, I've been shit to deal with these past few years. I don't even know how you put up with me, seriously. I just... I have no idea what to do here. Help me out, please.”

You hear her shuffle on the other end of the line as she thinks. “Well, do you... want her?”

“Him. And... well, no, I mean... Guy like me ain't got no business raising a kid, you know. But... I still feel like-- I just don't want to dump him right after his junkie ma did.”

“Derrick,” she says, “Even if that's the case, that baby isn't safe with you.”

You close your eyes and rest your head against the wet metal of the phone box. “Yeah, I know.”

You lapse into silence. She murmurs thoughtfully to herself, just as she did back in high school with equations and chemical mixtures before scribbling down on her notepads.

“Derrick,” she takes a breath before continuing, “I'd like you to come over here. If you... still have stuff in your system, I can drive over--”

“Well, uh, nah, I can take a cab, but... what about your man?”

She snorts, “Forget about him. Just make sure you both get here safe.”

She hangs up before you can protest any further. Or maybe the douchebag husband was lurking around. He had never liked you very much. Perhaps he saw you a threat or some stupid shit like that. Or maybe your wife bashing gums with some junkie slacker wouldn't look too good to the neighbours. In any case he's been a major factor in your distance from the Lalonde household.

You jog back across the road and upstairs. There's a duffel bag underneath the sofa that you pull out and chuck a random assortment of clothes and the recently acquired baby stuff into. Finally, you pick up the baby carrier and head for the door, glancing around the apartment one final time. Just when you think you're set to go you remember that you're missing _the_ more important thing, and your eyes come to rest on the paper bag on the counter top.

At the moment you feel as fine as you can be, but you could be at Ro's for days, weeks, even. You need to bring some with you, just enough to keep you stable, no more. It's not like you'll go all out. Then again what if she were to find out you were stashing drugs at her house? Her daughter must be up and walking now so what if she were to get into them somehow?

After one final stare down with the innocent looking bag, you make your decision, then leave.

Your cab driver is a dour old dude who ignores you and blasts crackly jazz on the radio, which suits you just fine. The little guy occasionally cracks his eye open and gurgles, grabbing towards the dusty light before nodding off again. You can't tell whether he likes the noise or not, but seeing as he isn't crying you figure he must be somewhat content. You heard babies like cars, at least.

It's still pissing it down when you reach the grand gates of the private neighbourhood. You pay your guy and he takes off without so much as a thank you. You take a moment to remove your jacket and cover up the carrier, not wanting the baby to get all wet. Fuck knows how you'd deal with him getting sick. Your t-shirt almost instantly sticks to you with rainwater as you punch a few numbers into the wall mounted intercom. It's picked up right way, but Ro doesn't greet you-- just buzzes you in.

You sidle through the gates, feeling very much out of place. Luckily it's too dark and wet for any of her jumped up snooty neighbours to be peering out at you from behind their lace curtains. You arrive at the stupidly large house-- nah, mansion is more like it. With its double garage, neatly trimmed lawn and artsy angles. Other than a faint glow from the living room the house is dark, if it weren't for the brief twitch of the front curtain you would doubt anyone was actually in. Ro opens the door as you trudge up the immaculate pathway dressed in a fluffy pink gown and matching slippers.

“Come in, sweetie,” she says with a tired smile, ushering you inside.

“Thanks,” you reply, removing the coat from the carrier and chucking it over the rack in the hallway. The little guy gurgles, eyes wide as he stares at the curvy pink shape before him.

“Oh, ain't he just a doll?” Ro coos, crouching down and undoing the straps. “Come to auntie Rosa, honey.”

You resist rolling your eyes, dumping the carrier as she cradles your baby with practised ease. She babbles nonsense as she bounces into the living room with you awkwardly shuffling behind her.

“Has he been fed? Changed?” She asks, offering her manicured finger for the little man to grasp at.

“Yeah. Before we left.”

“Good.” She sounds sort of relieved. You don't take it as an insult.

You move over to the window, leaning against the sill. It's adorned with framed photographs of the Lalondes at various prestigious events, stiff and uncomfortable in their happy family act.

“So where's the douche?” You ask, staring out into the rain.

Ro snorts with laughter, “I told him you were staying and he was all, like, insisting he was putting his foot down and all that garbage. So I told him if he didn't like it he could get out and go spend the night with his secretary like he does every Thursday.”

“That even true?”

She shrugs, “Probably.”

You lapse into a moment of silence. Little dude takes the opportunity to gum at Ro's fake nails. Then your life long friend sighs deeply.

“So... what are you gonna do about this, Derrick?”

You rub at your temples. “I have no fuckin' idea, Ro. I just got this kid chucked at me today and I'm already struggling to cope.”

“You said you didn't want to... dump him, right?”

“Yeah, but... maybe it's for the best, y'know?”

Ro frowns at you, then looks back down at the kid with warmth in her gaze. “But... he's such a lovely little thing...”

“Ro, I... I can't keep a kid. Not with my... y'know, lifestyle.”

“Then maybe it's time you kicked it. For good this time.”

Her eyes now bore into you and you turn away again, crossing your arms and pacing the length of the couch. You squirm at her judging glare and partially because your shirt is still sticking to you from all angles. You fucking hate the rain in this city-- heavy, dark, polluted. Unsanitary as fuck.

“Look, lemme just grab a shower before ya'll crawl up my ass about it.” You snap, grabbing your bag and stomping up the stairs before she can argue with you.

Despite your scarce visits you manage to find the bathroom fairly quickly. It's unnecessarily huge with a circular tub and one of those not-toilet things you get in fancy hotels. Thankfully the shower is still pretty simple to use. There are some pink fluffy hand towels hanging on a rail, however there are three larger ones on the back of the door-- another pink one, a boring brown one and a kids beach towel with a cute purple pattern. You make an educated guess about the owners of each towel and decide to use the one belonging to Mr Lalonde. Because nothing would anger that asshole more than some junkie scumbag drying his balls on his property.

Once you're washed, dry and stinking of flowery shower products, you kneel down in your borrowed towel and rummage in your bag for a fresh change of clothes. As you pull out a clean (enough) shirt the bag you snagged before leaving drops out on to the floor. You stare blankly as the paper soaks up the drops of water that has splashed out on to the floor tiles.

You just about jump out of your skin when Ro drums her nails against the door. “Derrrrriiiiick. Have you got the baby's food in that bag of yours? The little darl is hungry, aren't you, baby?”

Your eyes widen in guilty panic as she coos obliviously at the kid. You make a grab for the bag as you call out in reply, “Uh, yeah, sure, just gimme a minute, yeah?”

You don't want to put it back in the bag if there was a chance Ro would be rummaging around in it. You fumble with the wet bag and shove it behind the sink in the gap between the pipes and porcelain. Once you're certain its safely out of sight for the time being you open the door. It isn't until Rosa pretends to gasp in shock that you realize you only took the time to yank on some underwear before she disturbed you.

“You got a package for me there, doll?” She giggles as you roll your eyes at the line.

“Not in front of the kid, Ro.” You mutter, pulling on the shirt you had looked out. You pick up the duffel bag and usher her back down the stairs with one last glance to where you stashed your stuff. You don't have a fucking clue what you're going to do with it but you'll deal with that later.

You unpack the baby's food in the living room before finally pulling on your pants. Ro carries on cooing at the kid as he glugs down formula, but you flop down into an armchair and tune it out. You're still in disbelief this is even happening.

“Does he have a name?” Rosa asks gently, to which you shrug your shoulders.

“Dunno. His mom didn't tell me.”

She sighs, forehead wrinkling into a frown that does not suit her. “She didn't give you anything? Birth certificate? Contact details? Do you even know who she is?”

“Nope.” You reply. “Just shoved the kid at me and legged it. Couldn't even tell you _her_ name, to be honest.”

Rosa shifts the baby into his carrier, rocking it with one hand as he dozes off and uses her now free hand to massage her temple. “Derrick, y'know that means you're not on his birth certificate--”

“He probably doesn't have one, to be honest.” You've seen chicks just drop a kid in dens-- and you've heard horror stories of them getting left there. It was some fucked up _Trainspotting_ type shit.

“Well... at least we can try get that sorted then.”

There is a lull, then. You know she has so many questions, worries-- things she wants to fix, including you. Not being able to put things right straight away irks her. She cares too much about other people, but then again if she lacked that forgiving nature of hers you would never still be friends.

“It can wait until morning.” You say, nodding at the clock on the mantle piece, wedged between many pictures of Rose at various points in her short life.

“I guess,” she agrees, picking up the kid and tapping her foot thoughtfully. “There's a travel cot in the upstairs closet. I'll get Rosie's old baby monitors too...”

Other than digging out and assembling the cot, you leave the rest of the kid's bedtime routine to Rosa. She makes sure the little guy is changed and settled down for at least a couple of hours, bundled up in a fresh pair of Rose's old, faded pink pyjamas.

You follow her upstairs with the baby monitor in hand, to her lavishly decorated bedroom. You doubt that her husband sleeps in here much from how much she has made it hers'; you know that they barely like each other, and you've ended up in her bed just to get back at him on more than one occasion.

For a gay guy you sure do end up banging a lot of chicks, but Rosa is, well, different. There's nothing romantic there-- just two folks so platonically attached and equally starved of affection that you end up in bed together. Emotions are difficult, trifling things so instead of speaking you trace the words on her thigh with your fingertips and capture her breath with kisses. It is a selfless act on your part-- your hands and your mouth are an offering; the clench of her thighs around your face and the grip of her fingers tugging at your hair as she peaks, sighing blissfully, is all you wish for in return.

“So you reckon your old man's cheatin', huh?” You say, after, the taste of her still on your mouth.

She groans affirmatively in response, stretching, bare breasts flush against the mattress. “'Course he is. Always has been. Thinks because he's got money he can get away with anything he wants.”

“Dickbag.”

She shrugs, “Is it bad I'm really not bothered? Pfft. Or maybe I'm just used to it by now. I dunno.”

Right on cue she leans over to her bedside table, fishing around until she finds a small silver flask you know is topped up with expensive room temperature vodka. You always have to look away, to bite back telling her that she should really kick the habit-- but it would be hypocritical of you to call out her own socially acceptable addiction.

“You need to ditch him.” You say, after you hear the cap being twisted back on. “Like, you'll get half his shit and you're earning more than him anyway. Bet you could even get full custody if you wanted to.”

“I'm working on it,” she replies, her tone implying something shadier.

Just then you hear a tiny choke, then a cry through the crackling baby monitor. Rosa chuckles, flopping back on her pillow and gesturing you towards the door.

“Welcome to parenthood, Didi.”

You roll your eyes, pulling on your parents and padding downstairs in your barefeet. You approach the cot cautiously, peering over at the little life flailing his fists around and kicking in his sleepsuit. The crying is giving you a splitting headache already, but you pluck him up and lean him against your shoulder anyway, patting him on the back as you wander over to the window.

“Ain't nothin' to cry about, lil'man,” you tell him, even though you know he doesn't understand just yet, “Shush now, aight, shh.”

It takes a while of muttering, papping and awkwardly walking him around the room, but eventually the crying eases into tiny sniffles, then he is slumped against your chest, fast asleep again. You lurk around downstairs for a while longer listening to the rain patter against the window pane as your kid snores lightly. You can feel your fingers quivering, your brow sweat-- and you know, regret, that if you don't get a hit you're going to be in a bad way.

You think about the bag you've stashed behind the upstairs sink. You have enough for a few hits in there, but if you're going to be staying with Rosa for a while you'll need to pace yourself. Weighing up the pros and cons you eventually conclude that you could probably sleep through your mild withdrawal then get up early for a hit before everyone else is awake.

Deciding it's best you turn in for the evening, you tuck the kid back up in his cot. You linger a moment more, smoothing down his small tuft of hair.

“Sorry, kid. You deserved better.”


End file.
